Regent
by Azarr
Summary: And what would you do if I killed you silently and slowly? L and Light. AU. Yaoi.


Read the following very, very closely, because it's likely the only time that I'll be writing it:

**Rating**: NC-17

**Warnings**: In no specific order: yaoi and het pairings; AU; cussing; death; blood/gore (a lot of it); references to self-harm; references to suicide; references to sexual abuse (only minor, and no, that's not the reason for the self-harm and suicide); references to depression, schizophrenia, multiple-personality disorder, and other mental and emotional conditions; references to a myriad of illegal actions including but not limited to robbery, armed robbery, possession of an illegal weapon, assault, grievous bodily harm, manslaughter, homicide, sex with a minor, and sex for hire (prostitution); probably some OOC; completely inaccurate descriptions of scenery, traditions, and such in Japan (I'm trying, but I've only been there twice ^^;;;); and... I'll update this as more of them show up, alright?

**Spoilers**: Even though this is an AU, a lot of small bits of information from the _Death Note _series as a whole will be spoiled.

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**Disclaimer**:I don't own _Death Note_. This is a non-profit, amateur effort not intended to infringe on the rights of Tsugumi Ohba, Takeshi Obata, or any other copyright holder.

**Rating for This Chapter**: M or R. Not sure how the rating system works :S

**Warnings for This Chapter**: Language; blood/gore; death; some OOC-ness (I think); and references to self-harm.

**AN**: I'm bored and have too much spare time; thus, _Regent_ was born. Don't even ask, because I'm not sure.

This is my first attempt at writing from Light's point of view, and I think that I actually pulled it off reasonably well. L, I think, turned out okay, too, so I'm pretty proud of myself.

I will not write a warning within the story just before the gore/yaoi/whatever appears. It is a fundamental part of this piece. If you don't like it, don't read it. It's as simple as that. Don't complain about it later, because I've given you more than ample warning. If you think this sounds bad, you should read some of the shit over in the _American Psycho_ fandom.

Gimme feedback :D

(This wasn't proof-read. I might fix some of it up, later.)

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There are several things in Light's life, he thinks, that he's unhappy with; and several more that would do well with improvement. It's not that he lives a particularly stressful of horrific life; in fact, he's sure that, compared to others, his lifestyle is relatively sheltered - perhaps even blessed.

And that's not a problem.

He likes living the Kantō region of Honshū, Japan; conducting his life with an effortless grace that he knows makes many of his classmates envious. He likes to attend school and excel in all of his classes with ease. He likes his home, though it's simple, and the privacy of his bedroom. He likes normal things, like shopping, eating out, playing sport, dressing nicely, spending time alone, and winning at every competition he enters. All in all, he lives a charmed life, where nothing is handed to him on a silver platter, so to speak, but he gets by easily enough.

The problem, as far as he can tell, is that while his life is uncomplicated and trouble-free, it's also incredibly dull.

Schoolwork is too simple to interest him much; though he loves his family, they're ordinary and, at times, painfully boring and mediocre; from his position above its simple-minded pettiness, he can see how pathetic society is and can't seem to integrate himself into it, which is fine, because he doesn't _want_ to be part of it - he's far too good for that and that's just it: everything is the same routine played out over and over again: life is repetitive and tedious, and he can't find where he fits in at all. He doesn't belong here, amongst people with common, average goals and common, average families: he's worth more than that; more than _them_. Something needs to give, or he's sure that he'll lose his mind.

At least, that's what he thinks before he steps through the threshold of his living room; throws his jacket over the back of the couch; and promptly vomits when it lands on what appears to be his mother's severed head.

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_Regent_

By Azar-Apocalypse

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Chapter One

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Springtime flows into the classroom through the open window, though it's dulled by the dark storm-clouds overhead. The trees in the courtyard sway in the weak wind, a leaf occasionally fluttering into the room and onto his desk. The season means warm days and cool nights; tourists gathering, paying close attention to the weather bureau as they plan hanami; the start of a new school year, and an influx of new students and staff.

He sits at his desk and watches the leaves, fading in and out of conscious thought and doodling absently on a spare piece of paper. Outside, there are groups gathering in the small park; and he observes them as they eat lunch under a large sakura tree.

The tedium of school is reaching him more strongly than ever before. His whole body aches with a lethargy that Spring only seems to worsen; and he can't be rid of the tiredness, no matter how much he sleeps - and lately, that's at least eight hours every night. Mentally, he's exhausted: far too often, he finds himself staring blankly at whatever's in front of him, barely aware of but not seeing the world around him; utterly fatigued because he spent the whole day mentally challenging himself, which is how he knows that there are ninety-two and a half tiles on the ceiling of this particular classroom, and the square root of ninety-two and a half is approximately nine-point-six-one-seven-seven, and the square root of that is approximately three-point-one-zero-one, and the square root of _that_ is...

He's meant for far, far more than this.

"Yagami-kun," the teacher calls from the front of the classroom, breaking him out of his reverie for a moment, "would you mind reading this next haiku?"

He stands up slowly; glances around the room and notes what page of the textbook the class seems to be reading; and drawls in what he knows is perfect English, "_An ancient pond/A frog jumps in/The splash of water_."

Smiling from ear to ear - for reasons that he can't conceive - the teacher claps as he sits down, and the praise is more irritating than flattering. "Perfect pronunciation, Yagami-kun!" She glances around the classroom at Light's classmates, who don't echo her enthusiasm. "Did you hear how Yagami-kun didn't separate the words into Japanese syllables? Did you hear the _flow_ of it? Did you notice how he stressed the first and third syllables? Did you hear how he changed the shape of his mouth he pronounced the 'l'?"

But where, months ago, his classmates would have turned to shoot him scathing looks, their envy, resentment, and admiration shown clearly on their faces; where someone might have cared to notice that his textbook isn't open or even on his desk; where he might have been bothered by the fact that no one is paying an iota of attention to his success, there is now only the dulled tones of several students who are failing the course playing with their mobile phones instead of taking notes.

_As if anyone _would_ notice_, Light thinks boredly. _It would only be surprising if this wasn't a consistent theme_.

The teacher discusses his recitation for the rest of the lesson, and what might have once been pride is now a dull acknowledgement of his own talents; a fading sort of smugness at his superiority.

Minutes fade into hours and, soon enough, school has finished for the day, but he hardly notices. Everything around him seems to blur together into a panorama of monotony as he walks to the train station, ignoring a distant roll of thunder, and time passes so quickly that he knows he'll spend the night in bed, staring at the ceiling and wondering if he actually lived the day through or if it was just his imagination playing a perverse trick on him.

It's raining when he finally steps into the train station. He'd like to feel dismayed at the fact that he doesn't have an umbrella with him, but the irritation doesn't reach even as far as his lips. When his stop comes, he walks home through the rain, feeling numb and weary.

"I'm home," he announces as he slips his shoes off at the front door.

The loud reply comes muffled from the walls that separate the hall and the kitchen: "Welcome home, Oniisan!" After a few moments, Sayu peers out of the kitchen and smiles. "How was school?"

He regards her for a second, feeling vaguely amused by the streak of flour on her cheek. "Dull," he answers honestly. "You have flour on your face. Are you baking? I can't smell anything."

She wipes at her cheek and succeeds only in spreading the flour even further. He hides a smile and she replies, her brow creasing, "I'm making hanami dango for lunch tomorrow, but I can't get the colours right..."

His smile widens affectionately. "I'm sure you'll get it right eventually." And he is, really. Where he's exceptionally talented at- at _everything_, if he's going to be completely honest, Sayu is a brilliant cook and he enjoys eating whatever food she prepares. She returns the smile and he considers staying with her in the kitchen; but he realises that he's not at all interesting in the intricacies of cooking or a humble, middle-class life. It's with a strangely clean conscience that he says apologetically, "Sorry, Sayu, but I've got homework to do."

Her face falls and, for a split second, he contemplates taking his words back. "Oh," she mumbles, clearly crestfallen. "Yeah, you should do that..."

He ruffles her hair gently, but she still seems downcast when he finally makes his way to his bedroom alone.

From his bed, he has a clear view out of his window and into the city. Tokyo in April: the constant, dull throbbing of rain against buildings; the slick shine of thousands of wet, plastic raincoats and umbrellas; and an excuse to stay inside all day. The Yagami house is heated; his bedroom isn't, and he pulls a jersey over his head, the cold biting at his fingers until he curls them up under his sleeves.

He feels heavy as he lets himself sink into the mattress and it occurs to him, after he stops watching the traffic, makes himself more comfortable, and lets nothingness wash over him in a sluggish wave, that he has no work to do and nothing to study. He's already read every book that he owns at least three times, and all of his notes are memorised.

With a sigh, he dedicates himself to spending what he approximates is around four hours staring at the ceiling, his mind blank, until he pulls a blanket over himself and closes his eyes. Sleep, as always, come slowly and only after much tossing and turning.

"Are you okay, Light?" Sayu asks over breakfast the next morning.

He looks up at her from his food, which he's been staring at intently but not eating. "Yeah, I'm fine," he replies. "Why?"

She swallows a mouthful of egg before answering: "You just look pale, that's all. Did you sleep?"

He wonders where her concern is coming from. If she can see from across the table that he's tired, there must be something showing on his face. There are no bags under his eyes - he's using a cream to hide those, the unsightly things that they are - and he's sure that the pallor of his skin will hide nicely under the new crème formula that he just bought to even out his complexion. There's no use in letting his standards fall; he's still Yagami Light and he's still perfect, even if he is extraordinarily tired, as of late.

"She's right. You do look tired," Souichirou comments from across the table.

But he won't admit that.

He blinks and drinks a large mouthful of water; but not large enough that'll he'll get a stitch or - Heaven forbid - _bloat_ when he walks to the train station, later. "I'm fine, Dad," he replies slowly, secretly feeling his teeth with his tongue. No plaque. Nothing where it oughtn't be.

"Are you sure?" Sachiko asks, raising a hand to check his temperature. He nods quickly, startled, and moves out of her reach, and she lets the hand fall back to her side. "Do you want to have the day off? You haven't been looking well, lately."

Are they all in on this? Is this something that everyone but Light can notice?

"No, I'm fine," he insists. "Thanks for the food," he murmurs as he stands and leaves his plate for Sayu and his mother to clean up.

In his bedroom, he sits on his bed for some time with his head in his hands, trying to rub the fatigue out of his eyes with his knuckles. There's no reason for him to be so tired - his sleep was undisturbed and he hasn't been involved in any strenuous activities, lately. Perhaps it's just the season.

There's a knock at his door and he quickly looks up, adjusting his hair in the process.

"Hey, Oniisan!" It's Sayu. "Have you showered yet?"

He quickly stands and gathers his uniform in his arms. "No, not yet. I'll go now."

She whines for a few moments, but quickly stops when he walks into the hallway and quirks a brow at her.

"Did you finish making the dango last night?" he asks when she doesn't say anything.

She smiles proudly and replies, "Yeah. I was using too much yomogi, before, so it was getting all thick-" She breaks off abruptly and stares, horrified, at his neck. "Light, what happened to your throat?!"

Confused, he reaches up to touch his throat and his fingers meet long, uneven scabs that run from his jaw to his collarbone. He knows what this must look like; and he also knows that it can't be that but it can't have been anyone else, because he hasn't let anyone that close in a long time.

"I... fell into a tree at school," he says lamely, still running his fingers up and down the wounds. A sharp sting accompanies the action, but he hardly notices.

Is this why he's so tired? Is _this_ what he's been doing to exhaust himself?

Sayu grimaces and steers him into the bathroom by his shoulders. "Why didn't you say anything yesterday?" she grumbles as she opens the cabinet above the sink and produces bandages, tissues, and an antiseptic lotion. Her eyes follow the path of his fingers, for a second, and she asks curiously, "Don't they hurt?"

As soon as she says it, he's more aware than ever of the dull pain radiating from the wounds at every brush of his fingers against the broken and inflamed skin, but he can't stop touching it - he can't quite believe that they're actually there. "Yeah, a bit." This is unreal to him. His own nails tore these marks into his skin. _He_ did this to _himself_.

"You should probably stop touching them," Sayu suggests with all the patience of a parent telling a young child that money is not food. She unravels one of the bandages and pours antiseptic onto a handful of tissues until it drips from them and onto the ground. "Do you want to do it, or do you want me to?"

Light takes the damp tissues into his hand and gingerly applies it to his injuries, gritting his teeth so that he won't wince at the burn. Sayu watches him intently and mops up some of the blood that trickles down his chest and mingles with the alcohol to bite at his skin.

The wounds aren't deep: the skin has simple been scraped away in long, often intersecting lines. While it's painful, he's experienced far worse before - spraining his ankle during a tennis match; breaking his arm when a classmate pushed him into a pool; dislocating his wrist during an earthquake - so he refuses to express any discomfort. There are worse things in the world than having skin torn away, he thinks, and most definitely things that are far more painful, and complaining about self-inflicted wounds is nothing short of pathetic.

He swallows awkwardly and his hands still.

Self-inflicted. He did this to himself.

Sayu, assuming that he's finished disinfecting the scrapes, offers him the bandages. "You should keep them covered, or you'll get an infection," she says.

He considers the bandages and decides stubbornly that in no way will he assert to everyone around him that he's hurt; and bandages would be like a flashing beacon to the blemishes, so he won't wear them. He wants to remain perfect in the eyes of his peers, so thick bandages just won't do.

"It's fine," he responds. At her frown, he insists, "Really. I'm a big boy, Sayu. I can take care of myself."

With a sigh, Sayu puts the bandages away and leave the bathroom. As soon as she's gone, he stares at the injuries in the mirror, his fingers ghosting over them again. He curls his fingers and presses his nails to a bare patch of skin on his throat, morbidly curious; applies enough pressure to cause an ache but not enough to break the skin. There's nothing but his pounding heart-beat in his ears and the disbelief at his actions. He can't imagine pressing down any harder than this, and the thought of tearing his skin away in great chunks makes him feel ill.

Light's heard about people who self-harm. It's not indicative of suicidal tendencies, in most cases; rather, it's usually desperate and a need to release pent-up emotions that cause people to self-harm.

Is that him? Is he really so weak and pitiful that he'd deliberately harm himself?

He doesn't like to think of himself as so pathetic and showers quickly, not bother to avoid the wounds - they'll heal in time. He doesn't agitate them on purpose, by any means, but he accidentally brushes against them with soap several times and bites his lip so as not to cry out. If they hurt, it's his own fault, so he'll accept responsibility for his actions and deal with the pain.

As soon as he's finished dressing, brushing his hair, and exfoliating and moisturising his face, he leaves the bathroom. Sayu all but runs into it, and he wonders at her eagerness as he descends the stairs to the dining room, smiling at his mother and nodding toward his father. He picks up his backpack from the table and makes to leave, intent on getting out of here as quickly as he can so that his parents can't notice the marks on his neck.

When Light's at the door, Sachiko calls after him, "Light!" and he nearly panics; nearly stops breathing because he _knows _that she's noticed; knows that she's going to call him back and ask just what is going on; and he pauses at the door, his fingers curled around the doorframe, but then she goes on, "Sayu and I won't be home, this afternoon. We're going shopping."

He releases his breath in a fast gush of carbon dioxide and replies, "Okay." He leaves the house, his pulse still racing, and steps over a puddle, making his way toward the train station.

It's cold after the rain, and he's glad that he has his jacket. Puddles dot the ground; the sky is still dark. He smirks when several girls some way away shiver and hug each other, complaining about the weather.

He knows that the marks on his neck stand out - that people will _notice_ just as surely as he'll ignore them - and he makes a concerted effort to inconspicuously hide them behind his collar. High collars aren't fashionable anymore - they haven't been for months, if he recalls correctly (which, of course, he does) - but he'd rather be hideously unstylish than show off his self-harm. To make the whole ordeal yet more unbearable, the material of his jacket is rough and scratches against the injuries unpleasantly through his thin shirt; and he somehow has to manage to force his face to remain relaxed, regardless of his discomfort.

"Morning, Light-kun!" a girl calls from behind him.

He turns around and somehow convinces himself to smile. "Good morning, Kiyomi-san."

Takada Kiyomi makes a face at his address, but, nevertheless, she smiles and touches his arm lightly. He fights the urge to smack her hand away when she asks, "How are you?" He knows that she doesn't really care about his wellbeing, other than in an abstract, selfish way. He's not sure what she wants at all, but it might be what he represents; might be his body; might be his intellect, and it's just as well, because what she represents is more than what he's ever desired from her; and her body and mind are just a bonus.

A drastic change of temperature accompanies their entrance into the train station, and he unbuttons his jacket, pretending not to notice when Takada watches him and eyes his high collar with distaste.

"I'm fine," he replies mechanically. "How are you?"

_Clockwork_, he thinks. _Women are like clockwork_; because those words are all it takes for Takada to begin a conversation about her new gold earrings (_Fake!_ Light's mind screams); the sweater that her mother ruined by dry-cleaning all of her clothes; how her hair frizzes in the rain and isn't that unattractive; and Light knew, all along, that this was how the conversation would progress: knows that this is how conversations between them will _always_ progress and that he will always pretend to listen, nod when he deems it necessary, and care less for this girl than he's cared about anything in his life, because she is clockwork and that's all she ever will be.

Takada adjusts her jersey and somehow, it brings him back to reality. "I'm glad you're feeling okay, this morning," no, she's not, "but are you sure you're alright? You look tired. Did you sleep?" She reaches up to touch his face, and he dodges her hand.

Pretending not to notice her hurt expression and really not caring when he does, he frowns and murmurs the words he knows she wants to hear: "Please don't touch me so casually in a place like this. What if you give people the wrong impression? Kiyomi-san, I wouldn't want your reputation to suffer because of rumours."

Takada heaves a longsuffering sigh and links her arm with his; and apparently doesn't notice when he stiffens.

"And what impression would that be?" He doesn't reply, sick of the whole ordeal, and she sighs again. "I'm just worried," she says. "You look tired."

Surely, he can't look _that_ tired, can he?

She leads Light to one of the benches near their platform and coaxes him into sitting down. "I'm sorry, Light-kun, but I can't see you at lunch - I have a meeting with Ueda-kun. We're going to discuss the funds for the student council..." It's apparent that she doesn't realise he's not paying her any attention at all. He resumes staring through her and nodding at appropriate intervals, and she smiles and continues talking.

The train eventually arrives at the platform and they step into it, jostled by their peers and busy, rushed workers. Takada, somehow, is still talking to him and Light, somehow, can still hear her. It's unfortunate, he thinks as he watches the scenery flash by in a blur of green and grey, that he's forced to spend so much time with her. What's even more unfortunate is that she insists on hanging onto him whenever they're together.

They reach the school and Takada still won't leave his presence. He contemplates physically pushing her away from him, though he knows that he'd never do something so uncouth - especially not in public.

"Today," the chemistry teacher says after Light manages to disentangle himself from Takada's seemingly endless supply of arms and hands and finally gets to his first class, "we'll be talking about atomic nuclei. Does anyone know what they're made up of?"

Immediately, someone calls out, "Hadrons!"

Light secretly rolls his eyes. "Nucleons," he mumbles under his breath. There's no point in him being here, as far as he can tell. He pays faint attention to the proceedings in the room, but tries to focus more on the weather outside than the sheer idiocy inside.

The teacher smiles and says, "That's right, Suzuki-san." Light's fingers twitch despite himself; he bites the inside of his cheek and watches a couple kiss in the courtyard. "And are they the smallest particles in atomic nuclei?"

Suzuki - whoever that is; and Light's not sure, because he doesn't like to associate himself with morons - eagerly answers, "Yes, sir!"

Already frustrated with the discussion, Light interjects before the idiot teacher can respond: "No. Nucleons are made of quarks." He's confused to find that the frustration doesn't quite reach his mind.

A hush descends over the room and the teacher eyes Light curiously. He self-consciously tugs at his collar, sure that someone's going to notice soon; but then the teacher's lips curl up into a smile and the stupid man is saying, "Oh, very clever, Yagami-san! I'm afraid we're not getting _that_ deep into it, but if you want to be pedantic-"

"It's not pedantic. It's a fact," Light states, quickly becoming exasperated with his teacher, his class, his school, and the education system as a whole. "Protons and neutrons are nucleons. Nucleons are made of quarks."

Someone who Light strongly suspects is Suzuki pipes up from the back of the room, sounding ridiculously enthusiastic and smug, "But protons and neutrons are _hadrons_, not nucleons!"

Light considers that this might have once been him - without the incorrectness of the remark, of course - and only feels a detached sort of irritation at the fact that his reputation has lowered so much that someone is actually _arguing_ with him. "Protons and neutrons are nucleons," he explains boredly. "They are also hadrons, but you wouldn't say that an atomic nucleus consists of hadrons, because protons and neutrons aren't the only hadrons." The person to his left is staring at him, so he averts his gaze back to the window and pretends not to care about the foolishness of his classmates. He wonders if he got through to any of them and if he ever will.

"There's no need for an argument," the teacher says before Suzuki can respond. "You're both right," Light's eye twitches once more and he decides that he might as well be a fly on the wall, "but Yagami-san's answer was far more specific."

The class progresses smoothly, after that, and ends in a spectacular argument about mesons that Light doesn't care about enough to be involved in. He leaves for recess with a self-imposed throbbing in his head - because if he can't think clearly, he can't consider mesons; and if he can't consider mesons, he can't argue that, for the love of _God_, nucleons are _baryons_, not mesons, and _yes_, that makes them hadrons, but they're still, first and foremost, nucleons - and an odd ache in his eyes.

Takada, unsurprisingly, is waiting for him and he's struck, once again, by the thought that she is just as predictable as every abiotic factor in his reality. He wonders where the life in her is: if it's in her chest, beneath the thin layers of cotton that she thinks constitutes a shirt; past her underwear and the fatty tissue of her breasts (there's a sudden flash of her conversation, clear as a bell in his ear, and he brushes it off; _"...but don't you think they're sitting awkwardly today, Light-kun? They're so _small_ and_- _Don't _look_ at them!"_); maybe even beneath her sternum and ribcage and settled deep in the atrium of her heart... or if it's hidden under thick layers of make-up and products that are, no doubt, supposed to make her more attractive to him; lying below the impeccable and neat hair follicles and scalp; entrenched in the folds of her brain, at the very back of her conscious mind... or if there's any life in her at all; if there's any substance beneath the make-up and revealing clothing and perfect, straight teeth. Is she completely devoid of anything that matters?

"Do you..." he begins slowly, curious, "Do you ever think, Kiyomi-san, about the reason you're alive? Or do you just feel... dead all the time?"

Her mouth stops moving and her expression fades into bewilderment. "Like a zombie, in one of those movies?" She smiles when he frowns. "Perhaps you should spend more time with books, rather than DVDs."

Light is frustrated that she doesn't understand his fatigue - not that he'd expected her to; but, for whatever reason, he'd thought that she might be capable of comprehending the blank slate that is his psyche - and says, "Ah, sorry. I was just being philosophical. All that talk about subatomic particles... It's really amazing, isn't it, that life is made up of things so small?"

He can tell by her expression that this conversation leaves her lost in the murky and unfamiliar water of his thoughts, so he doesn't pursue it. He wonders if he will ever pursue it with anyone; and if there's anyone he'll ever be able to pursue it with.

They eat together, and when she spots Ueda from across the courtyard and calls out to him, Light finds that he can remove himself from their boring conversation about funding and new blackboards with relative ease. Ueda says something particularly interesting and Light decides that he both despises and envies their ability to completely submerge themselves in their pathetic, insignificant matters when Takada promptly begins to scribble notes in a lecture pad, nodding every other second.

He's disinterestedly raising his sandwich to his lips when the injuries on his neck give an unexpected, nasty throb. He drops the sandwich and reaches up to touch them; his fingers meet warm moisture.

_Shit_.

He stands, cutting Takada off mid-sentence, and mutters, "Bathroom." As he quickly walks away from them, Takada's shocked cries falling upon deaf ears and Ueda's nonchalance carefully noted, he feels his collar. Thankfully, the blood hasn't soaked through the material. He's glad that the high-collar ordeal was not for nothing; and he feels ill at the thought of making himself bleed. Surely this is the lowest form of self-expression. As far as he's aware, he doesn't dislike himself in the slightest, and the notion that this is a subconscious loathing of himself makes him want to laugh. He's never experienced any amount of self-hatred or even _dislike_ of himself, and why would he? He's Yagami Light: genius; attractive; _perfect_. There's nothing in him worthy of anything less than the greatest respect and admiration.

The bathroom is not empty when he arrives at it and he patiently waits, staring pointedly at a wall, for the occupants to leave before he pulls down his collar and carefully inspects the scrapes.

They're deeper than he first thought, and the skin surrounding them has been rubbed raw on his collar.

"Shit," he mutters, producing tissues from his pocket and pressing them to his throat. He watches the door for any new arrivals, but none come until he's finished washing the wounds and leaving them to dry.

"Ah, Yagami-kun!" It's Ueda. Light is less than enthused. "Kiyomi-chan," Light quirks a brow, "and I were just wondering when you'd run to."

Light balls the bloody tissues up and throws them into the bin near the sink. "Sorry," he says. "I'm afraid something I ate... it didn't quite agree with me." He smiles and flushes, the very epitome of awkward; and adds, "I didn't want to say anything to Kiyomi-san. I'm afraid she might tell me to go home."

Ueda nods sympathetically and responds, "I see..." He washes his hand in the sink and runs a hand through his hair, watching Light in the mirror. Light doesn't take his eyes off Ueda's face. There's something about the pinched skin, high cheeks, and endless smile that makes him edgy, though he knows that he's being nothing short of ridiculous. "Say, do you want to join us at lunch? We'll be discussing funding for the student council. I'm sure you can help us." Ueda laughs sheepishly. "I'm... not so good at math."

Light pretends to consider the offer, for a moment, and watches Ueda turn to face him. The other boy's hands drip water onto the floor. Light watches it disgustedly and tries not to think about the sheer number of bacteria now crawling around his feet.

"Thanks, but I'm going to have to politely decline," he says completely unapologetically. "I have a feeling I'll be back in here."

They both laugh; and Ueda apparently doesn't notice that Light is slowly inching toward the door.

"Well, maybe you can join us next week, after school," Ueda proposes.

Light smiles politely. "Maybe." Without giving Ueda a chance to prolong the conversation, he looks at his watch and says, "Ah, look at the time. I have to get going for my next class. You should, too, Ueda-san."

He ignores the feeble 'yeah, bye' that follows him when he leaves for his next class; and considers the fact that Ueda probably thinks that Light and Takada are dating. He'll be sure to correct Ueda, later. If it'll convince Takada to leave him alone, Light will even tell Ueda that all it takes is a mug of coffee and a vague, artistic mention of dandelions to gain her affections.

Life swirls by around him in a dull panorama and, before he knows it, he's back in the train station, Takada hanging from one arm and his backpack slung over the other.

"...and Ueda-kun says we can even try to convince the board to sponsor our school. With the funding that that would provide us with, we could afford a whole new set of textbooks - maybe even the ones _you_ use, Light-kun." She smiles up at him; her lips are glossy and pink. He imagines the taste with disgust and she goes on, "Imagine what else we could buy with money like that. We could probably even buy a new tennis court. I know how much you don't like the old one - it ruins your shoes, doesn't it?"

He hums some kind of response at her and she talks on, ignorant of the fact that he's now started counting the slats on the train station's ceiling.

Bad habit.

A screech and a voice over the intercom; and their train is in front of them, and Takada is pulling him into it, dragging him to their seats and forcing him to sit down beside her.

He acquiesces and she frowns.

"Light-kun," she begins delicately, "is there anything wrong?"

Light has had quite enough of her perceived inadequacies, so he tells her with an elegant smile, "Ah, sorry. I guess I just got caught up in my thoughts." He wasn't, but now that he's thinking... "Do you know a Suzuki-san?"

He realises what a stupid question it is and isn't surprised when she laughs. "Of course I know a Suzuki-san, Light-kun. I know at least twenty Suzuki-sans."

He laughs, too, though he's never felt more annoyed. "I meant the Suzuki-san in my chemistry class," he clarifies, suddenly completely uninterested in her answer. He really doesn't care who Suzuki-san is; not on more than a smug, superior level. Instead of listening to her response, he watches the scenery go by around them and suddenly contemplates the fact that it will be Sayu's birthday, soon, so perhaps he should start thinking about buying her a gift...

The train stops at Shinjuku and Light somehow manages to lose Takada in the crowds. It's no relief - with her absence, he's left with nothing to reflect on but her words for the first time in as long as he's known her. She could very well be his key to getting ahead, now, and if it comes down to it, he'll use her connections to the school board without hesitation. Unlike her, he needs more than this. Unlike her, he is not content to discuss funding and responsibilities for the rest of his life.

He's _more_ than that; more than _her_; more than any of the people around him. Not more than the weather, though; it's raining again and he calmly walks through the sheets of it to his home, where the glint of the sun against his mother's car momentarily stings his eyes.

Huh.

He curiously toes off his shoes at the front door and calls, "I'm home."

No reply.

_Maybe they walked or caught a train,_ Light thinks. _Nothing odd in that._

With the house to himself, he's unsure of what to do. His interest in his own bedroom has long since expired: he knows the room as well as he knows all one hundred and seventeen elements on Mendeleev's table (_Hydrogen, helium, lithium, beryllium, boron, carbon..._) and even rearranging the furniture won't change that.

He might as well do something mindless, he decides - something stupid and dull, like watching television. He shucks off his jacket as he steps into the living room. There's an odd smell lingering; something cloying and disgusting.

"Gross," he mutters, his nose wrinkling, as he carefully throws his jacket over the back of the couch.

It doesn't flatten out against the upholstery of the settee; there's a clear lump beneath it.

With a shrug, he searches the living room with his eyes for the television's remote control as he straightens out his jacket. His fingers meet something warm and wet beneath the clothing and he draws his hand back, startled; pulls his jacket away to see-

Oh God. Oh God oh God oh God.

An odd buzzing fills his ears and he can't look away from it; can't look away before he takes in every detail: details like its cavernous mouth; the gaping holes where its eyes should be; the hair swept away from its face in a haphazard sort of pile on the top of its head; the raw flesh of its throat that has his skin crawling and his extremities numb and his mind at a complete stand-still; the blood covering the couch and his jacket and his hands; the-

His disgust and fear leaves him in a rush of bile flooding from his mouth and onto the floor. The ringing, buzzing in his ears is getting louder and louder, making his head hurt and his heart pound and he can hear that, too, and-

He wipes his mouth and staggers toward the door; turns away from the blood and gore and mess because it's not real - it's fake, fake, _fake_ - just in time to feel a shattering pain in his skull. His subsequent scream of agony is muffled by something on his mouth and he tries again to scream; struggles against them and tries to shuck them off; but then they breathe on his neck and he falls very, very still.

Is he going to die? Are they going to kill him?

"Hey, hey," someone coos in his ear; and he feels sharp, stark terror grip at his belly for the first time; feels more bile rise to his throat and makes a panicked, whimpering noise that he'd think disgusting in any other situation. He doesn't want to die. Not now. He really _doesn't want to die_. "Calm down, Yagami Light-kun." Shit - they know his name. Whoever they are, they know who he is. It's not a random- not a random murder; it's planned and he's next and - _Oh God_ - he's really going to die here, snivelling and sniffling and- "Take a deep breath. Come on, I'll do it with you - in through your nose, out through your mouth."

Something sharp is digging into his back and he feels tears well in his eyes; because he doesn't want to die and he can feel something slick on his face; something wet that smells like metal and life and his family- His family, who are still on the floor and the couch and the walls behind him, hacked up almost beyond recognition and still with their eyes open and punctured, staring at him and he can feel it on the back of his head; feel it just like he can feel the barrel of a gun against his spine and the blood on his face and the vomit on his chin.

He could turn around. He could turn and punch whoever it is; and he knows he could, because the hold around him isn't that tight and though the thing on his mouth smells like chemicals, he's stopped breathing; but then there's the click of a gun being loaded and- Shit-

He releases a pitiful, terrified scream into the cloth on his mouth and immediately draws in a sharp breath; screams again and struggles in the person's arms because he _won't go down without a fucking fight_, but his eyes are already starting to blur and the person is breathing into his ear; and the gun at his back is so cold that he's shivering, trying to scream but his voice is failing, now, and he's weak; weak and pathetic and so, so _tired_ that he can't keep his eyes open anymore; and then he's falling; falling into some kind of abyss and then there's nothing.

-----

Wow. So... er... how's that for a first chapter?

Things that might need clarifying:

**I. **Hanami is the traditional Japanese custom of enjoying the beauty of flowers ('flower' almost always referring exclusively to sakura or ume). Almost entirely throughout Spring, sakura bloom all over Japan. The blossom forecast (sakurazensen) is announced each year by the weather bureau and is watched carefully by those planning hanami, as the blossoms only last a week or so.

**II. **The haiku that Light reads is by Matsuo Bashou, the most famous poet during the Edo period in Japan. It reads: _Furuike ya/Kawazu tobikomu/Mizu no oto._ What Light read is the English translation: _An ancient pond/A frog jumps in/The splash of water_.

**III. **'Oniisan' means 'brother'. I'd write Sayu saying 'big brother' when she speaks to Light, but that just sounds retarded xD

**IV. **Dango is a dumpling made from rice flour. Three to four dango are usually served on a skewer. Hanami dango has three colours - a white, uncoloured dango; a green dango, coloured by yomogi (Japanese mugwort); and a third dango, coloured with pink food colouring - and is traditionally made during sakura viewing season (hence the name 'hanami'). The dango are served on a skewer in the following order from bottom to top: green, white, and pink.

**V. **'Goochisosama' is the end of meal counterpart to 'itadakimasu'. One says it when excusing oneself from the table. It didn't seem right to me when I wrote this phrase's rough English translation ('Thanks for the food'), because many Japanese phrases don't have a direct translation. The integrity of this piece probably would have been preserved better if I'd just kept it in Japanese, but I don't feel like throwing in random Japanese phrases for the Hell of it, unless there is absolutely no English alternative (or, like 'Oniisan', the English translation just seems awkward and retarded in conversation.)

**VI. **The layout of the Yagami home is based loosely on the home shown in the first _Death Note_ live-action movie.


End file.
